IN VERSE.

As far as the seventy-fourth page, these Poems have been printed about two years; during which many things happened likely to prevent their ever appearing. The time, however, is now come, and I have to-day found the remainder, up to where the lines end with

"Its unpolluted birthright."

On reading the whole over, they struck me with much surprise, as they appear in a singular manner prophetic. I wrote them with a general, and somewhat undefined view; and they now take the aspect of speaking on what has since happened to myself—a long seclusion, during which I was bereft of the common means of study, having given rise to one that has turned out far more important than I at first imagined, and which I have continued since, to the exclusion of every other pursuit.

Stonkam, May 10th, 1818.

I.

If writing Journals were my task,

From cottagers to kings—

A little book I'd only ask,

And fill it full of wings!

Each pair should represent a day:

On some the sun should rise,

While others bent their mournful way

Through cold and cloudy skies.

And here I would the light'ning bring

With threatening, forked glare;

And there the hallowed rainbow fling

Across the troubled air.

Some faint and wearily should glide

Their broken flight along—

While some high in the air should ride

Dilated, bold, and strong.

Some agitated and adrift,

Against their will should rove;

Some, steering forward, sure and swift,

Should scarcely seem to move—

While others, happiest of their kind!

Should in the ether soar,

As if no care would ever find,

No sorrow reach them more;

When soon an arrow from below

Should wound them in their flight,

And many a crimson drop should flow

Before they fell in sight.

The rapid and abrupt descent,

The stain'd and ruffled plume,

Would seem as if they were not meant

Their ardour to resume.

But soon their beauty and their force

Sweet hours of rest renew;

Full soon their light, their varied course

Careering they pursue.

Alternately to rise and fall,

Or float along the day—

And this is Fortune—This is all

I would vouchsafe to say!

II.

Lucy, I think not of thy beauty,

I praise not each peculiar grace;

To see thee in the path of duty,

And with that happy, smiling face,

Conveys more pleasure to thy friend,

Than any outward charm could lend.

I see thy graceful babes caress thee,

I mark thy wise, maternal care,

And sadly do the words impress me,

The magic words—that thou art fair.

I wonder that a tongue is found

To utter the unfeeling sound!

For, art thou not above such praises?

And is this all that they can see?

Poor is the joy such flattery raises,

And, oh! how much unworthy thee!

Unworthy one whose heart can feel

The voice of truth, the warmth of zeal!

O Lucy, thou art snatch'd from folly,

Become too tender to be vain,

The world, it makes me melancholy,

The world would lure thee back again!

And it would cost me many sighs,

To see it win so bright a prize!

Though passing apprehensions move me,

I know thou hast a noble heart;

But, Lucy, I so truly love thee,

So much admire thee as thou art,

That, but the shadow of a fear,

Wakes in my breast a pang sincere.

III.

THE ARTISAN.

This twilight gloom. This lone retreat— This silence to my soul is sweet! Awhile escap'd from toil and strife, And all the lesser ills of life, Here only at the evening's close, My weary spirit finds repose; My sinking heart its freedom gains, Which poverty had bound in chains!

For here unheard the moments fly— And so secure, so happy I, That, often at the very last, I feel not that my dream is past. The little hour of bliss I spend, With thee, my chosen, only friend! That transient hour the heart sustains, Which poverty has bound in chains!

And for this dear, this precious hour, I would not, if I had the power, Exchange a worldling's life of ease, Whom all around him seek to please. I have no other friend beside, But here I safely may confide. Suspicion ne'er the bosom stains, Which poverty has bound in chains!

How oft I wonder at my lot! How oft are all but thee forgot! While in this half-despairing breast, Love builds a little, quiet nest, To hover o'er with joyous wing, Nay, sometimes soar aloft and sing! 'Tis this alone the heart sustains, Which poverty has bound in chains!

IV.

"Come, Edmund, now the sun goes down,

Thy many wanderings tell!

Say, after all thine eyes have seen,

If home appears so well!"

"So well! alas! ye do not know

How absence can endear!

In every hill, in every tree,

A thousand charms appear.

"The verdure of these English fields

Seems in my heart to glow—

There, as this shaded river winds,

I feel its waters flow.

"For, though I ventured forth so bold,

So long, so far did roam,

Affection, like a wayward child,

Still wept and murmur'd, home!

"I persevered, yet still I strained

The pleader to my breast;

I hush'd her cries, but as I chid

More fondly still carest.

"And when I met with foreign dames

Of grace and beauty rare—

I fancied one dear village girl

Like them: but oh! how fair!

"My early playmate! oft I humm'd

The lays she lisping sung!

And sigh'd when looking on the arm,

Where she at parting hung.

"Then, joy! within my native vale

To find my Ellen free!

To fancy others pleas'd her not,

Because she thought on me!

"So closely round a glowing heart

Did never flowers entwine!

Oh! ne'er was mortal spirit lull'd

With visions sweet as mine!"

V.

VALENTINE

FROM A YOUNG LADY TO HER MOTHER.

It is a custom, in some parts of Norfolk and Suffolk, to send little presents with verses on Valentine's Day, to relatives and friends.

Hope has her emblem, so has Love,

But I have vainly sought

For one, that might entirely prove

The picture of my thought.

If violets, when fresh with dew,

Could amaranthine be,

Their soothing, deep, and glowing hue

Would justly speak for me.

Or to some plant with tendrils fine,

With blossoms sweet and gay,

This office I would now assign;

But flowers will all decay!

A bird would suit my purpose more,

With filial heart endued;

But, ere their little life is o'er,

Birds lose their gratitude!

No emblem of the love I feel

Appears within my view;

Less ardent, or less pure the zeal,

Less tender, or less true!

All I can do is to avow,

My services are thine;

And that my spirit still shall bow,

Before my Valentine.

VI.

THE LOVER'S APOLOGY.

I look'd into her eyes,

And saw something divine,

For there, like summer lightning,

Swift coruscations shine.

Still flashing, and still changing,

Attemper'd soft and bright,

Through each expression ranging,

From pity to delight.

From high or zealous feeling,

From arch, excursive grace,

From all with which a lovely mind

Endows the human face.

Perhaps a new and careless eye

May not those beauties see,

And wonder to behold the power

Belinda has with me.

The spell which holds this captive soul

She never would possess,

Were not her varying features rul'd

By sparkling playfulness,

But when with aimless, trackless skill

Is twin'd a mazy chain,

In the warm foldings of a heart,

Perforce it must remain.

VII.

Come, Magdalen, and bind my hair,

And put me on my sad array;

I to my father's house repair,

And hear his final doom to-day.

But wrap me in that cypress veil;

At first his eye I would not brave,

'Till he shall bid the mourner hail,

And knows I come from Edwin's grave.

I, late his boast, his heir, his pride,

Must like a guilty vassal kneel;

I, who was gallant Edwin's bride,

Must to my widow'd state appeal!

Closely within my heart must keep

His praise for whom that heart is riv'n,

And let each fond resentment sleep,

For I must die or be forgiven.

VIII.

The Spanish Lady's Farewell, 1809.

Manuel, I do not shed a tear,

Our parting to delay!

I dare not listen to my fear!

I dare not bid thee stay!

The heart may shrink, the spirit fail,

But Spaniards must be free;

And pride and duty shall prevail

O'er all my love for thee!

Then go! and round that gallant head,

Like banners in the air,

Shall float full many a daring hope,

And many a tender prayer!

Should freedom perish—at thy death,

'T'were folly to repine—

And I should every feeling lose,

Except the wish for mine!

But if the destiny of Spain,

Be once again to rise,

Oh! grant me heaven, to read the tale,

In Manuel's joyful eyes!

IX.

SONNET.

I am unskill'd in speech: my tongue is slow

The graceful courtesies of life to pay;

To deck kind meanings up in trim array,

Keeping the mind's soft tone: words such as flow

From Complaisance, when she alone inspires!

And Caution, with a care that never tires,

Marshals each tribe of thoughts in such a way

That all are ready for their needful task,

The moment the occasion comes to ask,

All prompt to hear, to answer and obey;

When mine, undisciplin'd, their cause betray,

By coward falterings, or rebellious zeal!—

And Art, though subtle, though sublime thy sway,

I doubt if thou canst rule us, when we feel!